Sherlock Holmes - The demon barber of Baker Street
by emily.robbins.313
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was a barber in Baker street. He pines after his long-lost love, John, and wishes to get revenge on the man who tore them apart; murder has never been so delicious. Dark!Sherlock, Dark!Molly. Johnlock, (Sort of) Sherlolly, Mystrade, one sided Moricroft, one sided Johniarty. I own nothing. Warnings: Gore and violence, depression. *Happier ending than Sweeney Todd*
1. No place like London

**_Sherlock singing_**

_Greg singing_

...

Greg Lestrade, a young sailor, stood at the bow of the ship; the damp air of London mixed with the smog of the industrial factories that plague the town ruffled his dark hair. It should be noxious, but how he has missed that chocking air while away at sea. There is only so much sea spray one can take at a time.

_I have sailed the world, beheld its wonders_

_From the Dardanelles_

_To the mountains of Peru,_

_But there's no place like London-!_

There was truly no place like London. He had the satisfaction, also, of knowing he saved a life; one Mr Sherlock Holmes; a tall, thin, pale man with sunken, haunted eyes with dark smudges below them betraying countless nights' lost sleep. Speak of the man; he came strolling behind Greg adding, in a rather grave voice, to the balled for London.

**_No, there's no place like London._**

"Mr Holmes?" the sailor asked, anxiously. Mr Holmes was the silent type who hadn't said much of anything to anyone; and on the rare occasions he had said something, it was not taken kindly. He had betrayed the crew's darkest secrets as they tried to rouse him and let him eat. Greg was intrigued to hear that his Captain was a cross-dresser behind closed doors – but had not let on for fear of execution.

**_You are young._**

**_Life has been kind to you._**

**_You will learn._**

"Lord ... takes your breath away, doesn't it?" Greg asked, almost overwhelmed by the scale of the city. Sherlock seemed to almost shudder at the question.

**_There's a hole in the world_**

**_Like a great black pit_**

**_And the vermin of the world_**

**_Inhabit it_**

**_And its morals aren't worth_**

**_What a pig could spit_**

**_And it goes by the name Of London._**

**_At the top of the hole_**

**_Sit the privileged few_**

**_Making mock of the vermin_**

**_In the lower zoo,_**

**_Turning beauty into filth and greed._**

**_I too_**

**_Have sailed the world, and seen its wonders_**

**_For the cruelty of men_**

**_Is as wondrous as Peru,_**

**_But there's no place like London!_**

Greg looked towards Mr Holmes as the mysterious man closed his eyes and the demons melted from his vision, his expression softening slightly. "I beg your indulgence, Lestrade... My mind is far from easy. In these once familiar streets I feel shadows everywhere..."

As the two made their way off the, now docked, ship, Greg felt the need for further elaboration; "Shadows?" Greg asked, curious.

"Ghosts." Greg gave the man a questioning look.

**_There was a barber and his John,_**

**_And John was beautiful,_**

**_A foolish barber and his John,_**

**_He was his reason and his life,_**

**_And he was beautiful,_**

**_And he was virtuous._**

**_And he was..._**

**_Naive._**

Sherlock remembered the last time he had seen John, in that market place all those years ago; just strolling and talking. It had been bright and sunny, flowers and bakery bread aromas raised from the side stall pulling the two men in. The last time Sherlock was anywhere near happy.

**_There was another man who saw_**

**_That he was beautiful,_**

**_A pious vulture of the law,_**

**_Who with a gesture of his claw_**

**_Removed the barber from his plate._**

**_Then there was nothing but to wait_**

**_And he would fall,_**

**_So soft,_**

**_So young,_**

**_So lost,_**

**_And oh, so beautiful!_**

That day, years ago, Judge Moriarty, eyed John through the luxurious bunches of flowers. He stalked him, desiring him.

With the Judge was his nefarious creature, Beadle Moran. The Beadle was a tall, muscular man.

The Judge whispered to the Beadle, indicating Sherlock; the queue for the Beadle and several policemen swept in and drag Sherlock off. The Judge moved in on John like a predator, wrapping an arm around his waist; John flinched at the gesture.

Greg interrupted the dark thoughts in Sherlock's head, "And the man, sir... did he succumb?"

**_Oh, that was many years ago..._**

**_I doubt if anyone would know._**

Sherlock took a breath to try to cut through the constant droning of his mind. "I owe you my life, Lestrade. If you hadn't spotted me, I would be lost on the ocean still... Thank you."

Greg felt pride swell in his chest as the haunted man hauled his duffle bag over his shoulder. "Will I see you again?" he asked.

"You might find me, if you like, around Baker Street."

"Until then, my friend." Greg offered his hand to Sherlock, who accepted it and turned to leave. Lestrade stared after the man and wondered what cloud of darkness it was that seemed to continually loom over Sherlock's head.

As he walked down the damp, dark streets, his mind reeling, he muttered darkly; "There's a hole in the world – like a great black pit – and it's filled with people – who are filled with shit – and the vermin of the world – inhabit it..." as he disappeared into the darkness.

...

**Hey guys! Have you figured out who everyone is going to be yet? I hope not! I hope I didn't make it too obvious! ;) **

**Did anyone get the reference to Stardust?**

**Please review! :) **


	2. John and Moriarty - Poor Thing

_**Molly singing**_

* * *

><p>Sherlock hesitated before entering the pie shop in Baker Street (Mrs Hooper's meat pie emporium), but curiosity got the better of him. The bell above the door rang its message as Sherlock strode into the dusty building. A woman – not overly tall, brunette hair tied into a tight ponytail; Mrs Hooper, herself – chopped suet, with a lethal looking knife, standing behind the counter. "A customer!" She exclaimed; which, in all fairness, spooked Sherlock a little. He turned to leave.<p>

**_Wait! What's yer rush?_**

**_What's yer hurry?_**

She stabbed the knife into the worn wood and wiped her greasy hands on her apron.

**_You gave me such a_**

**_Fright. I thought you was a ghost._**

**_Half a minute, can't you?_**

**_Sit!_**

**_Sit ye down!_**

"Sit!" she ordered. Sherlock hesitantly obeyed.

**_All I meant is that I_**

**_Haven't seen a customer for weeks._**

**_Did you come here for a pie, sir?_**

Sherlock nodded. The woman flicked a bit of dust off a pie with a rag.

**_Do forgive me if me head's a little vague_**

"Ugh! What is that?" She questioned as she plucked something off the pie and examined it.

**_But you'd think we had the plague_**

She dropped the oddity on the floor and stamped on it – ridding it of its life, if it ever had one.

**_From the way that people_**

**_Keep avoiding_**

Sherlock saw the woman's eye stray to a particularly large cockroach.

**_No you don't!_**

She crushed it with her hand and smiled in satisfaction.

**_Heaven knows I try, sir!_**

**_But there's no one comes in even to inhale_**

She blew the dust off a pie and dropped it on a filthy plate as she brought it to Sherlock.

**_Right you are, sir. Would you like a drop of ale?_**

Sherlock nodded. As the woman turned back to the counter, her mood seemed to change.

**_Mind you, I can't hardly blame them_**

**_These are probably the worst pies in London._**

**_I know why nobody cares to take them_**

**_I should know,_**

**_I make them._**

**_But good? No,_**

**_The worst pies in London_**

**_Even that's polite._**

**_The worst pies in London_**

**_If you doubt it, take a bite._**

Sherlock took an experimental taste of the pie. It was as horrid as she described. He could hardly bring himself to swallow. He kept gagging on the vile thing, but kept his mouth closed – John would not approve of turning the mess of 'food' into a projectile.

**_Is that just disgusting?_**

**_You have to concede it._**

**_It's nothing but crusting_**

**_Here, drink this, you'll need it_**

She handed him his ale.

**_The worst pies in London._**

Mrs Hooper made her way back over to the counter. She slammed a lump of dough on its surface and began to knead it ferociously.

**_And no wonder with the price of meat_**

**_What it is-_**

**_When you get it._**

**_Never_**

**_Thought I'd live to see the day_**

**_Men'd think it was a treat_**

**_Finding poor_**

**_Animals_**

**_What are dying in the street._**

**_Mrs. Mooney has a pie shop,_**

**_Does a business, but I noticed something weird-_**

**_Lately all her neighbors' cats have disappeared._**

**_Have to hand it to her-_**

**_What I call_**

**_Enterprise,_**

**_Popping pussies into pies._**

**_Wouldn't do in my shop-_**

**_Just the thought of it's enough to make you sick._**

**_And I'm telling you them pussy cats is quick._**

Mrs Hooper leaned on the counter, exhausted from the exertion.

**_No denying times is hard, sir – Even harder than_**

**_The worst pies in London._**

**_Only lard and nothing more_**

Sherlock tried another mouthful – John would have wanted him to; but it was just as ghastly as the last.

**_Is that just revolting?_**

**_All greasy and gritty,_**

**_It looks like it's molting,_**

**_And tastes like –_**

**_Well, pity_**

**_A woman alone_**

**_With limited wind_**

**_And the worst pies in London!_**

She sighed heavily as she slumped against the counter – her head resting on slimy hands.

**_Ah sir,_**

**_Times is hard. Times is hard._**

Sherlock gulped down his ale in an attempt to rid his palette of that abomination, for want of a better word. Mrs Hooper smiled sadly at him. "Trust me, dearie, it's going to take more than ale to wash that taste out. Come with me and we'll get you a nice tumbler of gin."

Sherlock allowed her to lead him through the curtains at the back of the pie shop and into the parlour. She proceeded to pour him a, quite large, glass of gin. "You may call me Molly, by the way. Isn't this homey now? Me cheery wallpaper was a real bargain too, it being only partly singed when the chapel burnt down..." She handed him the strong drink. Usually, he did not drink, but that pie was so vile he decided that the preservation of his senses were better sacrificed to be rid of the lingering taste. "There's a good boy, now you sit down and warm your bones, you look chilled through."

Following her instruction – he sat in the thread-bare mauve sofa by the fire place. "Isn't that a room over the shop? If times are so hard, why don't you rent it out?" He asked. No deductions. John always said to be nice to ladies; the gentleman that John was. He might have slipped when aboard the naval ship, but he was deep into his depression and could hardly be roused to eat.

Molly glanced at the roof, obviously in thought. "Up there? Oh, no one will go near it..." her expression intensified, "People think it's haunted."

"Haunted?" Sherlock fought hard to keep the tone of amusement from his voice – however, he lost the battle with disbelief.

"And who's to say they're wrong…? You see, years ago, something happened up there. Something not very nice..."

**_There was a barber and his wife,_**

**_And he was beautiful,_**

**_A proper artist with a knife,_**

**_But they transported him for life._**

Molly sighed, dreamily.

**_And he was beautiful..._**

"Baker, his name was – Benedict Baker," she answered the unspoken question.

"Transported? What was his crime?" Sherlock asked; though he knew fully well of the charges.

"Foolishness," there was an edge to her voice that Sherlock couldn't place. Molly was plunged into reverie.

John paced, Mycroft, Sherlock's much younger brother, attempted to console him. John was distraught, strained, tears in his eyes.

The room was full of dead and dying flowers: dozens of dried bouquets tossed aside and ignored.

**_He had this man, you see,_**

**_Handsome little thing,_**

**_Silly little nit_**

**_Had his chance for the moon on a string_**

**_Poor thing. Poor thing._**

John moved to the window, looking out. He saw Judge Moriarty and Moran waiting below. Moriarty holds yet another bouquet.

**_There was this Judge, you see,_**

**_Wanted him like mad,_**

**_Every day he'd send him a flower,_**

**_But did he come down from her tower?_**

**_Sat up there and sobbed by the hour,_**

**_Poor fool._**

John moved away from the window, sobbing for his lost love. Mycroft attempted to comfort him, but was pushed away.

**_Ah, but there was worse yet to come,_**

**_Poor thing._**

Moran is leading a nervous John along an exclusive street of dark stone mansions, grand but somehow menacing. John is wearing his best clothes.

**_Moran calls on him, all polite,_**

**_Poor thing, poor thing._**

**_Moriarty, he tells him, is all contrite,_**

**_He blames himself for her dreadful plight_**

**_He must come straight to his house tonight!_**

**_Poor thing, poor thing._**

Moran ushered John into a ballroom. He is shocked to see a fancy-dress ball in progress.

Masked couples swirled around the ballroom, their number sinisterly multiplied by the distorting mirrors that frame the room. The hanging chandeliers, draped in red cloth, cast a disquieting incarnadine glow on the proceedings. John felt trapped and uneasy.

**_Of course, when she goes there,_**

**_Poor thing, poor thing,_**

**_They're having this ball all in masks._**

John wandered lost through the swirling dancers, the horrifying masks of distorted animals and demons adding to his confusion and distortion.

**_There's no one he knows there,_**

**_Poor dear, poor thing,_**

**_He wanders tormented, and drinks,_**

**_Poor thing._**

**_Moriarty has repented, he thinks,_**

**_Poor thing._**

**_"_****_Oh, where is Judge Moriarty?" he asks._**

Moran found John again and graciously gave him his arm, leading him through the party. He was thankful for the salvation he provided. He brought him to Judge Moriarty.

**_He was there, all right_**

**_Only not so contrite!_**

**_He wasn't no match for such craft, you see,_**

**_And everyone thought it so droll._**

**_They figured he had to be daft, you see,_**

**_So all of `em stood there and laughed, you see,_**

**_Poor soul!_**

**_Poor thing!_**

Moriarty descended on John, forcing himself on him. The other guests crowded around ravenously, enjoying the spectacle. It seemed a feverish nightmare.

"No!" Sherlock yelled, horrified; his cry brought Molly out of her memories. He had bolted up from the sofa, eyes wide and crazed. His hand fought the urge to tangle and pull at his dark, curled locks. "Would no one have mercy on him?"

"So it is you – Benedict Baker," she sighed.

"Where's John?! Where's my love?!" Sherlock asked. He needed John.

"He shot herself. I tried to stop him but he wouldn't listen to me. And… he's got your brother."

"He? Judge Moriarty?"

"Adopted him like his own."

Sherlock's expression grew darker as he tried to make sense of his waking nightmare. "Fifteen years of sweating in a living hell on a false charge. Fifteen years dreaming that I might come home to find a loving man and brother..."

Madness pulled him into the void, overwhelming him, as he stared into the fire. "Well, I can't say the years have been particularly kind to you, Mr. Baker, but you still –" Molly was cut off midsentence by Sherlock's correction.

"No, not Baker. That man is dead. It's Holmes now. Sherlock Holmes... And he will have his revenge," Sherlock smiled a crooked smile as he continued to gaze into the dancing flames; "Judge Moriarty and Moran will pay for what they did."

After what seemed like an age, Sherlock turned to Molly with what little sanity he had recovered, "First I must have my shop back."

* * *

><p><strong>Hey guys! What do you think of my casting? I have <strong>**_really _****enjoyed writing this so far. It's a nice break as it follows a story-line that is already laid out and has a script. **

**Please review, I really would love one :) **


	3. My friends

Molly and Sherlock climbed the exterior stairs to the room above the pie shop. Sherlock hesitated. Too many thoughts, whispers, that would not be quiet. This place was haunted for him.

Molly turned back to look at him, "Come along..." She continued up the staircase as Sherlock carefully followed.

The room appeared as more of a dusty spider's liar. He must shudder at the memories. The furniture paraded as ghosts under the thick, white cotton sheets and the broken mirror contained demons.

The door creaked and groaned as Molly entered, "Not to worry, a touch of oil will put that right…" Sherlock had not dared to enter the room, Molly noticed as she looked back over her shoulder, "Nothing to be afraid of, love, come in."

Molly knelt on the grimy floor and tore up a loose floor board. Underneath there was a small compartment; something covered with a velvet cloth. She removed it and carefully unwrapped it with a particularly gentle and respectful touch.

It was a fine leather case. She turned to Sherlock, dusting it off. Sherlock entered the room, "I don't believe it..." he gasped. Surly they wouldn't still be here after all these years?

"When they came for the girl, I hid 'em. I thought, who knows? Maybe the silly blighter'll be back again. Cracked in the head, wasn't I?" A small smile quickly tugged at one corner of her mouth, but quickly dispersed.

Sherlock opened the box to reveal a beautiful set of razors. He stood for a long moment, gazing down at his beloved razors.

"Those handles is chased silver, ain't they?" Molly gasped.

"Silver, yes..." Sherlock confirmed.

**_These are my friends,_**

**_See how they glisten._**

He picks up a small razor, flicking the blade open.

**_See this one shine,_**

**_How he smiles in the light._**

**_My friend, my faithful friend._**

He held it to his ear, feeling the edge with his thumb. Just as sharp as when he left.

**_Speak to me friend,_**

**_Whisper, I'll listen._**

**_I know, I know –_**

**_You've been locked out of sight_**

**_All these years –_**

**_Like me, my friend._**

**_Well, I've come home_**

**_To find you waiting._**

**_Home,_**

**_And we're together,_**

**_And we'll do wonders,_**

**_Won't we?_**

Molly leaned over him, in her own kind of trance as well. Sherlock picked up a larger razor, opening it with a metallic flash. They harmonised in a slightly demented balled.

**_You there, my friend,_**

**_Come, let me hold you._**

**_Now, with a sigh_**

**_You grow warm_**

**_In my hand,_**

**_My friend,_**

**_My clever friend._**

He put it back.

**_Rest now, my friends._**

**_Soon I'll unfold you._**

**_Soon you'll know splendors_**

**_You never have dreamed_**

**_All your days –_**

_I'm your friend too, Mr. Holmes._

_If you only knew, Mr. Holmes-_

_Ooh, Mr. Holmes,_

_You're warm_

_In my hand._

_You've come home._

_Always had a fondness for you,_

_I did._

**_– My lucky friends._**

**_Till now your shine_**

**_Was merely silver._**

**_Friends,_**

**_You shall drip rubies,_**

**_You'll soon drip precious_**

**_Rubies..._**

_Never you fear, Mr. Holmes,_

_You can move in here, Mr. Holmes._

_Splendours you never have dreamed_

_All your days_

_Will be yours._

_I'm your friend._

_And you're mine._

_Don't they shine beautiful?_

_Silver's good enough for me,_

_Mr. Holmes..._

Sherlock stared at one of his razors, "Leave me now..."

Molly did as she was told, unquestioning.

Sherlock held the largest razor open, stood proudly, "At last my arm is complete again."

The small bed in the corner caught his eye. He slowly walked over to it. He lifted the sheet, a cloud of dust rose into the stale air. An old umbrella lay discarded across the mattress. The judge didn't even let Mycroft come back for his beloved umbrella… He stood alone, staring at the rotted handle, holding his razor.


End file.
